


GHOST WALK

by EchoThruTheWoods



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-17 09:12:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5863267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoThruTheWoods/pseuds/EchoThruTheWoods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone’s got skeletons in the closet. One of Shinra’s is haunting Vincent and Veld’s new home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New House, New Problems

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a short story, but the plot bunny turned out to be a Giganticus Buniculus. Oh, by the way; food keeps turning up in these stories. It’s Veld’s fault.

Once a Turk, always a Turk. It didn’t matter that Veld was now director of the WRO’s municipal security division. Turk instincts didn’t go away just because he had a new title and a new crew of operatives to keep order in the city.

Keeping order in his own life--hell, in his own heart--was something else.

Veld shuffled papers, sorting reports into neat piles. Busywork; it kept his hands occupied while his mind wandered into strange territory.

Not only did he have a new job, with all it entailed; he had a newly-rented house to move into, and a new housemate moving in with him.

Assuming Valentine hadn’t already bolted and wasn’t halfway to Junon by now.

He and Valentine had a history that told him living with the man would be nothing like his marriage. Veld’s marriage had been his haven from Shinra. Partnership with Valentine was a perpetual sparring match.

Maybe he was trying to relive his youth. All he knew was that he and Valentine had thirty lost years to make up for, and Vincent had asked for another chance.

Veld had talked him into the house-sharing arrangement, but he hadn’t pushed very hard. Vincent had barely hesitated before adding his signature to the lease beside Veld’s.

So why were Veld’s instincts telling him that Vincent was feeling skittish about the move?

Vincent was supposed to be at the house today to start on the unpacking. He wasn't particularly domestic, but he’d assured Veld he’d be fine handling it on his own. Probably he would. Why not?

Ah, what the hell…Might as well take a long lunch, and go over there to see if he needed help.

# # #

“Boxes in the kitchen. Boxes in the hall. Boxes to the ceiling, boxes up the wall…” Okay, so Vincent would never be a poet, but the sing-song rhyme helped him concentrate. He eyed the stack of boxes that stood higher than he did. How in Gaia’s name had Veld accumulated so much sh--stuff? The man had lived alone--mostly alone--for years. Where was he going to put all of it?

Six cartons sat on the counter, each box tagged “Kitchen” in bold strokes of black marker. Vincent picked one at random and slit the packing tape with a box cutter. His brass claws were sharper, but they could easily damage anything fragile, so he’d set the gauntlet aside. Inside the box, wrapped in layers of tissue paper, he found a nested set of pots and pans in varying sizes.

It might as well have been a nest of venomous snakes. He shut the box and backed away. No one touched any of Veld’s precious cookware but Veld. Fine with Vincent; he couldn’t tell a saucepan from a saucier. Veld could put all this away himself. At least then he’d be able to find what he wanted.

But, honestly….SIX boxes full?

Maybe he’d better start with his own stuff. There was less of it, and once he’d gotten it out of the way he could try to get Veld’s other possessions organized.

He was sitting on the floor, hip deep in a pile of books, deciding between shelving by subject or by author, when there came a faint sound from somewhere in the house.

He lifted his head, listening.

There it was again. A scuff, like that of shoe leather on a wooden floor, and…was that a sigh?

Vincent rose, silent. He found his gauntlet, slipped it over his arm, tugging it into snugly into place. Stopped, listening.

_Scuff. Scuff. Sighhh._

He chanced a look around the corner into the hall that led to the rear of the house. Seeing no one, he took a step, another, careful to avoid the creaking floorboards he’d noted when he and Veld had first toured the house.

_Scuff. Scuff._

Vincent waited.

_Sighhh_.

The sound came from one of the two bedrooms. It had a window that faced out onto what passed for a backyard: A square of dry grass the size of a throw rug, and a thin, stunted tree. There was a fence of weathered wood, and behind that, a blank warehouse wall.

It would be easy for someone to slip through the alley, enter the yard, and break into what they thought was a vacant house. An opportunist might have seen all the boxes and furniture being dropped off and thought they’d have a rummage through the goods.

Brass talons poised to strike, Vincent strode through the bedroom doorway, prepared to give sneak-thieves the shock of their lives.

He had one glimpse of wide dark eyes in a young face, fair hair and a slender body. Male, startled, and literally transparent.

And then it was gone.

# # #

Veld got to the house a little past noon, slightly out of breath, balancing two steaming carry-out boxes in his hands. He set them down long enough to get the door open and found himself in a living room strewn with cardboard boxes, piles of rumpled paper, tangled strings of brown twine, and random bunches of crumpled packing tape. A broom with a lamp shade propped on its handle leaned against one wall, and a couple of rolled-up rugs lay directly across his path.

Veld grinned. “I love it. Who’s your decorator?”

Vincent, seated on the floor next to the bookcase, shoved a last volume into place and looked up.

“Hi. We’ve got ghosts.”

# # #

“Vincent,” Veld said for the third time, “we do not have ghosts.”

Vincent said nothing, just kept picking at a half-empty box of vegetable fried rice.

“The house isn’t old enough,” said Veld.

Silence. Vincent’s fork stabbed a chunk of carrot.

“Nothing violent ever happened in this house. I checked crime reports about the whole neighborhood before we signed the lease.”

More silence, and a heated glance.

“It’s only been rented four times since it was built, and all four families moved away. Nobody died here.”

Vincent pushed his food aside. “You don’t believe me.”

Veld sighed. “Tell me again what you saw.”

“A young man. Twenty, twenty-two. Short blond hair, dark eyes, white shirt and dark pants. Small, round silver earring set with a dark red stone.” Vincent might be seeing phantoms, but his Turk-trained observation skills were still in top form.

“All right, well, it could have been a neighborhood kid.” Everyone under thirty was a kid to Veld, present company excepted; especially since Vincent was, chronologically, the same age as Veld, never mind he looked too young to drink. “You said you thought someone had broken in.”

“The window was intact. And shut.”

“Well, he--”

“I could see THROUGH him, Veld.”

Veld shut up and thought about it. Obviously Vincent had seen something. But a ghost? In thirty-plus years as a Turk, Veld had seen plenty of death. He’d killed people. They all went into the ground and stayed there.

The only person he knew who hadn’t stayed dead sat across from him, with a petulant set to his mouth, arms crossed and eyes staring intensely into his own.

Even so, Veld and logic weren’t quite ready to part ways.

“He could’ve gotten into the house by another window while you were busy.”

“No. He didn’t.” Vincent leaned toward Veld. “I checked every window in the house. They were all locked. Every one. He didn’t dart past me, he didn’t hide under the bed or in the closet or behind the drapes. He vanished. Into. Thin. Air.”

Veld had one more possibility to offer. It sat in the room, big as life and twice as ugly, and they’d both danced around it. If he put it into words, Vincent would be plenty pissed. But he’d run out of arguments.

“Vincent,” he said quietly, gently, “I believe you saw something. I just think--maybe it wasn’t actually there.”

Vincent went mute again, so still it looked like undead narcolepsy. Veld listened to his own heartbeat, loud against the silence.

“I wondered when you’d get to that,” Vincent said. He picked up his leftovers, closed the box, and rose.

“Vince--”

Vincent tossed the foam box into the trash, grabbed his jacket, and walked out the front door, shutting it very, very softly.

Veld winced.


	2. Vincent's Headmate Objects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out that at least one of the critters in Vincent's head is territorial. Who knew?

A cloud of steam rose from Veld’s favorite stockpot, fragrant with onions, chilies, ginger and coriander. He tasted a spoonful, added another dollop of fish sauce to the pot. Five minutes more, and it should be perfect.

The kitchen still needed work, but he’d done a bit of unpacking, cleaning and supply-shopping, which helped to clear his head. Being busy was a good way to keep from worrying.

He worried too much. And thirty years too late. Vincent wasn’t the only one with issues.

The latch on the front door rattled, followed by the creak of the door opening, and familiar steps crossing the floor. Veld smiled to himself. He’d left a window open, letting the aromatic steam escape, hoping his peace offering would eventually lure Vincent back. He might not need to eat often, but even he couldn’t resist something that smelled this good.

Vincent entered the kitchen, hands in his pockets. He looked uncertain; any kitchen was foreign country to him.

“Where’d you go?” Veld asked, keeping his voice even.

“Walking.”

“For five hours?”

“I was thinking.”

Sulking, more likely. Resolved to be patient, Veld ran a hand lightly down Vincent’s arm.

“You left the gauntlet here. And your gloves.”

“I know.” Vincent flexed his left hand, stretching the long, skeletal fingers. “I kept it out of sight. Coming back for it would have ruined my dramatic exit.”

“I’m glad you did come back.”

Vincent watched as Veld set the table. Still a little twitchy, he prowled around the room, peering into the stockpot, poking through Veld’s collection of spices.

“Feels…permanent,” he said, his gaze taking in the whole kitchen.

Ah, so there it was. Maybe that was the reason he was seeing ghosts. Veld added noodles and sliced beef to a bowl, and ladled broth over them. “Does it feel like home?”

Vincent accepted the bowl and seated himself at the table. “I guess so. Maybe?”

Veld filled another bowl and sat across from Vincent. “Vince, if we’re going too fast, say so. There are two bedrooms, you know.”

Vincent managed a slight smile. “You want me to room with the ghost?”

“Well, he sounds cute,” Veld said, dipping a spoon into his bowl. “You like blonds, don’t you?”

“I like older men. With scruffy whiskers.”

Veld snorted. “Older than who? We’re the same age, you jerk.”

Vincent stirred his soup, watching the noodles swirl slowly through the hot liquid. Clearly he had something he wanted to say, something Veld guessed he wouldn’t like; all the signs were there. Maybe Veld had pushed too hard, wanted too much. He braced himself.

“Veld, don’t take this the wrong way….”

Here it came. Goodbye, sorry about this, see you around.

“But you’re mistaken. I did see something. It really was there. Not in my head.”

Veld blinked, trying to catch up. When had he become such a drama queen? Someone here was a bad influence.

“My…demons…don’t manifest in one room while I’m in another,” Vincent said. “I have to be there. And I heard something before I saw it. I can tell the difference between the voices in my head and sounds coming from another room.”

He had a point. Veld was no expert, but he’d never heard anything about Vincent’s demons, or whatever they were, coming out in the open thirty feet away from Vincent’s body. They were an indivisible part of Vincent’s being.

“You’re sure about the sounds coming from that bedroom?”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

Gods knew they’d seen plenty of crazy things in the last few years. Why should this be impossible?

But, dammit, it was in HIS home now. That made a difference.

“Maybe you don’t want to stay in that room after all,” Veld said.

“No, that’s the funny part. I think I do.”

“…Ah.”

“Just sometimes. Not all the time.” At Veld’s quizzical expression, Vincent went on, “I want to see if he comes back. I might stay in there, some nights.” A bit of color crept into his face. “Other nights I’ll stay with you…if you want?”

Veld smiled. “I do. But if there’s a ghost, he’d better keep to the other room. I’m not into threesomes.”

 

# # #

 

Most of Vincent’s possessions remained in their boxes. He told himself he’d get around to unpacking them soon. Getting the municipal security division up and running meant non-stop work, and for the first couple of months all either of them wanted to do in the evenings was rest.

One evening Vincent found himself rearranging the bookshelves, which made re-reading some of his old favorites mandatory. Veld relaxed by turning the kitchen upside down and inside out. Vincent stayed out of his way when he got like this; Veld had every celebrity chef’s notorious temperament beaten by a light year. It was a mystery to Vincent how this seemed to make Veld happy, as evidenced by the clattering and sizzling, and the savory smells wafting out of the kitchen; but he wasn’t about to complain.

He turned a page in his current book, and caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. Across the room, a pale, translucent form hung like smoke in the air, floating just above the floor.

Young, male, transparent.

It moved, walking out of the room through the doorway that led to the kitchen. Gaia, Veld and a ghost in the same room? Vincent dropped his book and followed, torn between concern and smug satisfaction.

At the stove, Veld had a slim, dark bottle in one hand and all of his attention fixed on the measuring spoon in the other. Just beyond him, the misty shape drifted.

“Veld, don’t you see that?”

“Hmm?” Veld added the spoonful of whatever it was to the pan on the stove, stirring, tasting, thoroughly absorbed in his work.

Shaking his head, Vincent moved around him. Where had the thing gone? He reached the far end of the counter, and stopped, suddenly dizzy. A flush of heat spread through his body, vision blurring, going dark--

He caught the counter’s edge with his left hand, breathing deeply, blinking hard. His eyes cleared enough to focus on the counter, and the knife block sitting there.

Light around him, heat within him, solid surface under his feet. His hands flexed. Flesh and bone, subject to his will. He lifted his head, seeking. There, at the stove. Recognition sparked. Turk? Yes.

_Target One._

He drew the nearest knife out of the wooden block, the movement smooth and silent. Gripped the handle, ah, good balance. Eyes fixed on his objective, he slid one step forward, another.

A scream tore through his brain, full-throated fury/outrage filling his skull.

**INTRUDER--YOU DARE?!**

Something rose from the depths of his mind, all teeth and staring eyes, tall, wiry, twisted, terrifying. He jerked backward, fighting for control of his hand, for possession of his weapon.

_No, no, no, let me, NO!_

The thing lunged, shrieking. Steel flashed.

He shuddered, gasping, dropping the knife. Blood splashed.

“Vincent? What the hell are you doing?” Distant voice, a rush of movement.

His eyes rolled up. He went down.

 

# # #

 

“Vincent? Can you hear me?”

He blinked. “Why am I sitting on the floor?”

Veld crouched beside him, Vincent’s right arm stretched across Veld’s knee, wrapped in a kitchen towel.

“You fainted, Valentine. Your badass reputation’s officially shot to hell. Now, do you mind telling me what the fuck you thought you were doing?”

Thinking hurt. He’d had hangovers in the old days that had left him less muddled. A long knife lay beside him on the floor. His stomach clenched hard, urging him to pick it up and lick it clean of blood. His mind rang with hollow laughter.

The knife, the blood, the ghost, the anger that lived inside his head _ohgodohgodohgod…!_

“Whoa, calm down!” Veld slipped an arm around his shaking body. “It’s all right. You’re fine. Look.”

He drew the towel away from Vincent’s arm. The cloth was stained crimson, but the cut that ran from wrist to elbow had already closed into a thin, dark red line. It would be gone by day’s end.

Vincent clutched at Veld’s encircling arm with both hands. The pain was nothing, the injury, the blood…nothing. He swallowed hard, choking on the ugly truth. He’d been about to stab Veld with eight inches of cold steel.

Why? Gaia, why?

He had them walled off. His will kept them at bay. Only in his dreams could they rise, and then only when he was exhausted or under great stress.

What had changed? How had he lost control?

Wait, there had been something…A pale transparent figure, and Veld…

“Didn’t you see the ghost?”

“The…Vince, all I saw was you with a knife, and blood running down your arm.”

“Before that. I saw it in the other room. I…followed it in here.”

Veld said nothing. Vincent heard the wheels turning in his head, weighing, rejecting possible comments as useless or judgmental. Oh, he knew the man’s thought processes well.

“I didn’t see anything,” Veld said. “I’m not saying you couldn’t have, only that I didn’t. I thought you were sleep-walking. Are you telling me a ghost had something to do with this?”

The gibbering in Vincent’s head took on a note of eager agreement and…hunger. It could have been Veld’s blood on the knife, on the floor. On his hands, literally. His stomach rushed up his throat. “Veld, let go! I feel sick.”

He scrambled to his feet, waved off Veld’s attempt to help him, and made it to the bathroom in time to hang over the toilet, retching bile. His body processed food so efficiently there was nothing to vomit, but oh gods, this was loathsome. The only thing that could still make him ill was sheer visceral horror.

Veld came in as Vincent rinsed the acidic taste out of his mouth.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes,” he lied, hating himself for it. “I think I’m just really tired. Maybe you’re right, I was sleep-walking.”

Veld eyed him for a moment, perhaps sensing there was more going on in his head than Vincent admitted to; but he let it go. “Do you feel like eating?”

“Not really. Sorry.”

“It’ll keep. Better go to bed early, all right?”

He could do that. He just didn’t think he could sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things: 
> 
> One: No, the blond ghost is not Cloud. Just thought I'd get that out of the way.  
> Two: From what I can tell, Veld and Vincent are the same, or nearly the same, age, chronologically, although Vincent no longer ages and still looks twenty-seven. They were partners before Vincent was send to Nibelheim, presumably by Veld not long after Veld became head of the Turks.


	3. I Want to Believe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent attempts a little research. This chapter is kind of short, so Chapter Four will immediately follow.

While Veld, like a sensible person, slept, Vincent sorted through a box of books, searching for a particular one. ‘Paranormal Midgar.’ No, that wasn’t it. ‘Spirits of the Lifestream.’ Also not the one he wanted. What about ‘Haunted Gaia’? Could be useful anyway. He flipped through the index. No, nothing about Edge. He set it aside. Where was that other book?

It had been years since he’d read it, and he’d forgotten the name, but he’d recognize it if he saw it. It had to be here somewhere, unless he’d lent it to someone, in which case he would probably never see--wait, there it was, tucked between two newer volumes.

He pulled it out and moved to a chair. Sleep eluded him, and two o’clock in the morning was a great time for research.

He opened the cover, smoothing the yellowed title page that crinkled under his hand, breathing in that old-paper-and-ink scent that always drew him into second-hand bookshops. Nearly a century old, the antique script had faded to a warm brown, still easily readable to his enhanced eyes: ‘The Restless Dead: Theory and Supposition.’

He put his feet up, settled more comfortably into his chair, and turned to the first page.

# # #

Veld had a morning ritual. Shower, dress, wake Valentine, get coffee going, start breakfast, at which point Vincent usually shuffled out of the bedroom. It threw his rhythm off to find that Vincent was up before him.

He brewed the coffee, and joined Vincent and his pile of books in the living room.

“What’s all this?” Veld picked up one book and read the title, and then a second. All of the books, from what he could see, dealt with the same subject matter.

Oh, well, he’d survived this long by learning from his mistakes.

“Find anything helpful?”

Vincent gazed at him for a moment, as though trying to gauge whether Veld was humoring him. “Maybe.”

Veld drank coffee. “I’m listening.”

“Well, there seem to be two dominant theories regarding ghosts. First, that what we call ghosts are really psychic impressions left by the living, a sort of residual energy that clings to certain places long after the individual has died. They’re like a recording that plays over and over. That’s why they go through walls; they follow the same pattern even if the surroundings have changed.”

“That…actually makes a kind of sense. What’s the second theory?”

“That they really are disembodied spirits, who didn’t pass into the Lifestream after death. No one knows why, but hypotheses range from having left a task unfinished, to not realizing one has died, to being held from the Lifestream by some other sort of energy.”

“I don’t like the implications of that last hypothesis.”

“Tell me about it.” Vincent shifted, his movements jerky and stiff. Hours spent in the same position could do that to him, partial stasis taking hold as his blood settled in one place or another.

Veld rose, went to the kitchen, and brought back more coffee, including a cup for Vincent, as well as a plate of scones. He passed cup and plate to Vincent.

“I’m not hungry, Veld. You know I don’t really need to eat anymore.”

“Humor me.”

Vincent sighed and chose a scone.

“So,” said Veld, sitting again. “How can you tell the difference between the psychic impressions and the real spirits?”

With a mouthful of scone, Vincent looked at him, eyebrow raised.

Veld leaned back. “I’m reserving judgment, okay?”

“Umfkay…”

“Swallow first, then talk. How many times have I told you that?”

“Fffvellld..!” 

Oh, yeah, that had gotten the blood moving. Veld grinned.

Vincent brushed crumbs off of his shirt. “Bastard.”

“Always. So, back to the question…?”

“The impression is just that. It’s like watching a video. It can’t see you, hear you, or interact with you, whereas the actual spirit is self-aware, and aware of the living world.”

“And which do you think you saw?”

Vincent broke another scone into two pieces, handing half to Veld. “Well, the first time, I think it was a real spirit. I think he saw me. He looked frightened. And he made noises that I could hear from three rooms away.”

“What about the one you saw in the kitchen?” Veld asked, setting down his coffee cup. The only spook he’d seen or heard was Vincent, but maybe he himself lacked the ability. If spirits could be seen, Vincent was much more likely to see them, being halfway in that realm himself.

“I think it was the same spirit,” Vincent said. “But I lost sight of it, and…I don’t know.”

Veld ate his half of the scone, thinking. He didn’t mention the knife, but it was there, in his mind’s eye, its long, sharp blade pointing directly to the questions left unanswered last night. Vincent kept things from him; he kept things from everyone. Part of it was Turk training, and the rest was pure Valentine obstinacy. Veld had no intention of letting him off the hook, but he could bide his time.

“Still reserving judgment. Let me know if you see it or hear it again. In the meantime, we’re due at work.”

“I’ll be along soon,” said Vincent, nibbling the second half of the scone while he paged through another book.

“Valentine, don’t make me dock your pay.”

# # #

What was that old saying? Opposites attract? Veld was a logician by nature. If he could shoot it or screw it, it was real. Vincent, even after coming out the far side of hell, was a romantic, willing to give abstract things the benefit of the doubt.

He had enough experience with, um, inner demons, to fill a library. He knew the difference between what lived inside his head, and what was outside of it. He’d seen a ghost and that was that. To him, the next logical step was to figure out why he and Veld had a ghost in their house, and whose ghost it was.

No point in duplicating what Veld had already done. He’d have to start somewhere else. Step one: Call the landlord and probe for information.

“Hello, Mister Tibo, this is Vincent Valentine.”

“House on First Street?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“What broke?”

“…Nothing. I just have a question.”

“Ain’t lowering the rent.”

“No, of course not,” said Vincent. “I wondered if the previous tenants ever mentioned seeing anything…unusual in the house.”

“Like what?”

“Like…a ghost.”

“You one of them paranormal ‘vestigators?”

“No.”

“Some kinda psychic?”

“Not really, no.”

“You doin’ séances or hoodoo or pickin’ up vibrations?”

“Uh, no.”

Tibo’s voice flattened. “You been drinkin’, boy?”

Vincent sighed. “No, I haven’t. So, no one reported anything unusual?”

“None of my tenants ain’t never seen nothing like that.”

Vincent took a moment to parse that sentence to see if it added up to a “no.” 

Tibo went on, “If they did, they didn’t say so to me. Long as they paid their rent on time, I didn’t ask no nosy questions.”

“I don’t suppose I could ask you for contact information for any of them?”

“Nope. They settled up with me when they left, didn’t leave no forwarding addresses.”

Well, if he really wanted it, Veld could call in a favor. He had hooks into every Turk on Shinra’s payroll.

“All right, Mister Tibo. Thanks for your time.”

“Don’t mention it. ‘Specially to the neighbors.”

Right. Might as well go to work. Some of the targets at the firing range reminded him of Tibo.

Step two: Learn more about the house itself. Veld gave him the history he’d dug up; he even refrained from rolling his eyes and smirking. Vincent used his lunch hour to read through the records of inspections and past tenancy. A printout from the WRO’s statistics division proved to be a crime report for First Street and the surrounding area.

Nothing made reference to murders or even violent confrontations in their house. It was possible that someone had not reported a death, but was it likely? What would they have done with the body? Could there be something hidden behind the walls or under the floors, and how would he find it? He’d have to dig into them.

A vivid mental picture of Veld’s and Tibo’s reaction to that made Vincent wince. Bad idea.

But what if it was true? Bones behind the drywall, or under the floorboards. A body left to decompose…well, that was ridiculous. Someone would have noticed the smell.

 _Let’s look_ , said the eager voice in his head. Manic, hungry, entirely too interested in the prospect.

He crushed it, buried it. Denied it. His pulse picked up, blood pounding in his head. He put his hands over his face, blocking out the painfully bright cafeteria lights. Couldn’t think.

Gods, and people wondered why he sometimes disappeared for weeks.

In the dark behind his hands, he breathed, in-out, in-out, concentrating on nothing more than that. Let thoughts slide like water through his mind, let fear and doubt flow until they peaked, dissipating on his exhalations. Tension slowly drained from the muscles of his back and shoulders, headache fading.

Better. Now, what did he know?

He’d seen a ghost, a disembodied spirit. There was no evidence that anyone had died in their house.

What had he missed?

He lifted his head, eyes narrowed in the too-bright lights. The house was no older than the city of Edge itself. What had been there before?

He’d need to ask Veld to call in one of those favors, to find records of the city’s founding. And there was one thing more to look into. The larger, more disturbing question was: Why had he suddenly seen Veld as a target to be dispatched? The answer had to be tied to the question of the ghost’s origin.

He was fairly certain he wouldn’t like the answer.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers are probably aware that the character of Vincent Valentine went through several revisions before they settled on “ex-Turk/victim of Hojo/harbinger of the apocalypse” (what was Career Day like at Square Enix??) Anyway, one of their previous incarnations that never saw the light of day had him described as a detective who investigated cases of the supernatural. I thought it would be fun to allude to this in a story and thus “Ghost Walk” came to be.
> 
> Edited to add in one line that was inadvertently left out. ;)


	4. The Smart Way to Do Research

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Veld calls in a favor. Secrets begin to come to light.

Very few people knew about the records buried deep in WRO headquarters. Even fewer had any idea how much had been salvaged from the old Shinra building. The “need to know” list was short. Veld’s name was third on the list, after Rufus Shinra and Tseng. Even so, he’d had to clear it with Reeve, who’d personally handed the keys to Tseng.

Veld paged through a thick black binder, skimming through the information, memorizing as he went. There was a trick to it, a way of picking up enough of the essential details to be able to reconstruct the gist of the document. All Turks learned how, although some were better at it than others. A very few could recall, almost word-for-word, everything they read.

Only one Turk he’d ever known could skim through and summarize the entire thing after one reading, then combine the data with other, unrelated information and extrapolate to reach dead-on conclusions. Every time.

It explained a lot about why, despite his psychoses, Valentine had been admitted to the Turks.

Since Tseng wouldn’t let Veld remove the documents from the vault, it was a moot point. Out of respect for Tseng, Veld didn’t try to take pictures of the pages, tempting though it was. He settled for making notes in his own personal shorthand, while Tseng watched.

“You realize I’ll have to kill you now,” Tseng said, dry as dust.

“Ha ha. Don’t worry, no one else is going to see it. Not that anyone could read it but me.”

“I thought that kind of indecipherable scrawl was Vincent’s quirk.”

“Even he can’t read his handwriting,” Veld grunted, shutting the binder and sliding it back into the lockbox it had come out of. The urge to wipe blood off of his hands was, of course, only his imagination. “That’s nasty stuff, even for Shinra.”

Tseng shrugged. “I’ve only read the first page of that one. That was bad enough.” He locked the steel box, then the vault, as Veld waited in the hall.

“Thanks, Tseng.”

“Anything for my old mentor.”

They walked back to the elevator, down the long, dimly-lit hall. Something about the cool, dry air, the plain gray walls, the tiny crimson lights marking locked vaults, made Veld step softly, as though he walked through a mausoleum. Certainly there was enough evidence of death and destruction in these records to inspire both respect and a somber silence.

Especially knowing that he’d played a part in much of it. Valentine wasn’t the only one with a guilt complex, not by a long shot.

Tseng unlocked the elevator door, using a different key than the one he’d used to get into it on the upper floor; another of the numerous safeguards in the WRO building. Veld suspected that the locks and keys were changed out at random intervals; it was what he would have done.

“What led you to this information in the first place?” Tseng asked as they stepped into the car. A third key started the elevator moving upward with an almost subliminal hum.

“Would you believe a ghost?” Veld grinned at the sideways glance Tseng gave him. “Vincent thinks something’s haunting our house. I told him I knew for a fact that no one had ever died there, and he asked a very astute question: What about before the house was built?”

“Ah. So that’s why you had Elena routing out those old maps from the city’s founding.”

“Yeah, sorry about borrowing your Turks that way.”

“Don’t be. We’re still yours, you know. If you ever need us.”

“And what about Rufus?”

“Oh, he knows. And approves.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

# # #

Vincent arrived home just as Veld lit the candle that stood in the center of the table. Two places were set, china bowls and crystal goblets gleaming. A large tureen sat steaming to one side, filling the air with the savory fragrance of spiced beef stew. A bottle of wine, just opened, exhaled the rich, earthy scent of red grapes.

“Oh, you’ve got a dinner date,” said Vincent. “I’ll come back later.”

“Get in here, smart-ass.”

Vincent shut the door, shedding jacket and holsters. He set both guns carefully on the coffee table. “So what’s the occasion?”

“I guess you could call it an apology,” said Veld, watching the flicker of Vincent’s eyes as he puzzled out Veld’s meaning. As he’d expected, it took about two seconds.

“You saw the ghost?”

“I saw the possibility of a ghost, yes.”

“You found evidence of a death in this location.”

“Close. Come on, sit down, let’s eat, and I’ll give you the basics.”

Vincent slipped his arms around Veld. “Tell me now.”

Veld slid out of his embrace. “Nope. Eat first. I don’t want to spoil what appetite you’ve got.”

“That sounds ominous.”

Veld pointed to a chair. “Sit.”

Vincent kept his patience well enough through the meal. The stew, one of Veld’s own recipes, was a favorite of Vincent’s. The wine heightened his color a bit, though it could no longer give him a buzz. Veld sighed for the old days. Despite some of the things they’d gotten up to, there’d been a certain innocence to both of them thirty years ago. Or maybe it was ignorance and complacence. Uncomfortable thought.

Well, on with the show. He pulled his notes out of his pocket. “So, your question about what was here before these houses was spot-on. Before the city was built, this area held a number of…well, they called them ‘warehouses,’ but in reality, they were research facilities.”

Vincent made the connection. “Shinra.”

Veld nodded. He glanced at his notes, remembering the ugliness laid out in stark, clinical language in that black binder. “It was classified top secret. Only the, ah, ‘researchers’ and the old president knew about it. They answered directly to him.”

“What were they trying to do?”

“Some sort of mind control. Old Shinra wanted a personal cadre of assassins, loyal only to him. There was both physical and mental manipulation involved, some very heavy-duty drugs, and, of course, mako. Some of the subjects were…unwilling.”

Vincent shuddered, visibly. “I can’t say I’m surprised.” His eyes narrowed. “Were there names?”

“No. Neither subjects, nor researchers.” Veld softened his voice. “It probably wasn’t him, Vincent.” He had no need, nor desire, to say the man’s name, no more than Vincent did. The man on Vincent’s mind had likely been working on Vincent himself at that time, and Veld would rather cut out his own tongue than bring that up.

“Whoever it was either was incompetent or the program itself wasn’t viable. The subjects died, the project was written off as a failure, and the place was torn down to keep anyone from finding out about it.”

“By which time, all the data had already been spirited away by agents unknown.”

Veld grinned, shark-like. “Naturally.”

Vincent toyed with his empty wine glass. “He must have been one of the subjects. I wish I knew his name. It might help put him to rest if someone knew who he was. Maybe he still has family, or maybe he just wants to be remembered.”

“I sympathize,” said Veld, “but I don’t know what else we can do.” He rose, put the small sheet of notepaper to the candle flame, letting it catch, took it to the fireplace and dropped it among the logs, watching as it burned to ash. “Whoever he was, I hope he finds rest.”

“I do, too.” Vincent came to stand next to him, and this time Veld kept still while Vincent’s arms circled him. “Thanks for going to so much trouble for this, Veld.”

“Ah, well, what else is an old Turk good for?”

Vincent lowered his head, brushing Veld’s lips with his own. “Let me demonstrate…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Food again. Turks are always cooking something up. ;)


	5. A Ghost and A Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get weird. There's an old song that goes, "There's someone in my head, but it's not me."   
> Warning: F-bombs. Turks (even ex-Turks) are not the delicate type.

The voice that woke Vincent whispered from somewhere deep within the twisting, shadowy maze of his own mind.

_Something_ _comes_.

Veld slept beside him. Vincent listened.

_Intruder!_   Anger sparked, pulse pounding. He caught his breath, winced at the incipient headache. Slipping out from under Veld’s arm, Vincent rose, and paused to listen again.

_Sighhh._

The urge to attack bent him double, a sharp, stabbing pain between his ribs. He hissed air between his clenched teeth, reached within to leash the angry, manic presence, to bring it to heel. Not to banish it, but to hold it, to keep it in reserve.

_Wait_ , he wished it. _Don’t go away,  just…wait._

The sound had come from the other bedroom, just as it had the first time he’d heard it. He straightened, stepped softly into the hall, closing Veld’s bedroom door behind him.

_Sighhh._

Vincent hesitated. The last time the ghost had appeared, it had tried to use his body to harm Veld. He didn’t know why, or how, but surely some caution was called for.

He didn’t wear the brass claws at home, certainly hadn’t worn them to bed. Neither the gauntlet nor his guns were of any use against an incorporeal being. He’d have to trust to hair-trigger instincts and his internal guard-hounds.

Carrying nothing, wearing nothing, he walked silently toward the other room, and through the open doorway.

The pale form glimmered, framed against the dark window. Young, male, fair-haired. The same person he’d seen before, slender, clad in black and white, garnet and silver in his ear. Large dark eyes fastened on Vincent.

Vincent stopped just inside the room, kept his voice low. “Who are you?”

The youth cocked his head, frowned, and his lips moved, but another drawn-out sigh was the only sound he made. Perhaps ghosts had no capacity for earthly speech.

The ghost took one step forward.

Vincent thrust a hand out, fingers spread. “Stay back.” The voice that issued from his throat wasn’t entirely Vincent’s. It seemed to reach the ghost’s ears better than Vincent’s normal voice had; his eyes widened and he backed up, but didn’t vanish, watching Vincent warily.

The ghost made a gesture with one hand, fingers raised to his mouth, then his ear. Whether he’d been deaf in life, or his present state precluded speech and hearing, they were stuck. Vincent wasn’t willing to give the thing inside his head free rein to talk to the spirit, lest it break free of his control.

He fell back on simple courtesy, bowing slightly, hands clasped. The ghost copied him, then his hand moved again, sweeping up and down his body, pointing to Vincent. He made a slashing motion along his own torso. That was clear enough.

Vincent nodded, giving him a wry smile. On a sudden inspiration, he tried a couple of old Turk hand signals: _Yes. Dead_.

The pale hands flashed: _Turk?_

Vincent blinked. The youth knew Turk signs. It had been a wild guess, but a good one. The implications were disturbing.

Vincent pointed to himself, signed again: _Turk, not-Turk_. He indicated the scars on his body: _Shinra_. Pointed to the ghost, using the variant that meant “question”: _Labs?_

The youth nodded. His hands moved, signing three short words.

What? Surely he’d read that wrong. Vincent signed, _Repeat?_

The words came again, the ghost’s mouth shaping them at the same time as his hands.

_I am alive._

Alive? How was that possible? Veld had said the program failed because the subjects had all died. Could one of them have survived? He signed, _How long?_

The ghost shook his head, hands spread.

Questions and answers flew back and forth.

Where? _Large building, brick_. Street? _Unknown_. Are there others? _Yes._ Alive? _Uncertain._

Vincent tried again: _Where?_

Again the shaken head, spread fingers, arms thrown wide as though to encompass the world.

Well, maybe not the world. Just this neighborhood. Clearly not this house, but somewhere nearby, else why would the spirit keep returning here?

A large, brick building.

Vincent’s gaze arrowed past the youth, to the window that faced out on their tiny yard, with its fence that backed onto a broad, red-brick warehouse.

The ghost followed his gaze, looked again at Vincent, his shaking hands forming emphatic words. _Find! Must find!_

“Wait! Stay here!” Vincent spoke aloud, silently cursed himself, signed the words. He turned and headed back down the hall.

As he reached Veld’s bedroom doorway, an arm shot out of it and caught him. A prosthetic arm, its metal fingers hard and cold around his biceps.

“What’s going on, Valentine?”

“The ghost--he’s here! He’s trapped, we need to find him--”

“Calm down.” Veld released him. “Tell me.”

Vincent did. Veld looked toward the other bedroom, back at Vincent. “And what are you planning to do? Break into a warehouse in the middle of the night, stark naked?”

“No, I’ll--”

Something flickered at the corner of Vincent’s eye. Heat washed over him.

_Intruder! Trespasser!_ A growl escaped his throat. He reached within, braced his internal barrier. Lost his hold.

The walls came down.

He danced away, tilting his head, baring his teeth. Stretched his arms wide. Flesh and bone, earth and stone! So good to be free! Now where, where was the little one, the little mouse, where…?

“Vincent?”

He spun, looking back at the man, the bronze man with his lovely amber eyes. Grinning, he ran his tongue over his lips. “Later, catch you later! Mouse first!” He ran.

Here was a darkened room, but his eyes could see so well! He was a cat, hunting. He was a wolf, a raptor.

“Little mouse…?” He whirled in place, seeking, searching all the corners, floor to ceiling. Where was he? Behind the furniture, in the firebed? Or in the other room with the beautiful sharp steel knives? Ahh, to grasp that sturdy hilt again, to wield the long, sweet talon, to slash and cut and shred!

Something tugged on him, yanked, a desperate pulling deep inside where the Other struggled to regain control. He struck him aside. “No! Let me play!”

Steps sounded behind him. He turned to see a flash of milky light, watch it envelop the bronze man, who shook all over, eyes going wide. Those eyes dropped, lighting on the two holstered guns that lay on the low table. Bronze staggered forward, reaching, pulling out the larger gun, raising it slowly, hand shaking, to his own head.

The Other screamed.

He lunged, grabbing the man’s arm, forcing the gun down, away, wrapping his own arm around the man’s torso. “Oh, no, pretty man, no!”

Bronze fought him, and he smelled the intruder on him, in him. He hissed and spat, clawing at him, biting the hand that held the gun. Sweat and fear were salt and acid on his tongue, oiled metal slick against his teeth. They crashed to the floor, all blows and curses and twisting limbs, knees and elbows in the gut and squeezing fingers tight around a throat and--

A massive BOOM shook the world.

He rolled away, keening.

Head rang with echoes. Eyes blurred. Smoke stung his nostrils. Hot, familiar.

Vincent raised his head, shoving his hair out of his face. “Veld? Veld! Oh Gaia!”

He scrambled across the floor, shoving Cerberus out of reach. “Veld!”

Veld, flat on his back, blinked at him. “What…the fuck…is going on, Valentine?”

Vincent ran his hands over Veld’s right arm and side. No blood. “You’re not hurt?”

Veld sat up. “I’m fine, not counting the bruises.” He reached for the nearest lamp, switched it on, then shook his right hand, wincing. “Teeth marks? Gods and demons, Valentine, you fucking bit me!”

Arms crossed, Vincent scowled. “Would you rather I’d let you blow your own head off?”

Veld spotted the gun several feet away, and shivered. “I didn’t want to do it. Something took hold of me, I couldn’t stop myself--”

“The ghost. It was the ghost.” The other thing, that twisted other self, he refused to think about. It lurked within, whispering, glowering. He ignored it. “Not dead, but…still a spirit.”

Veld stared at him, clearly wanting to object, but did not. “Assassins. The information I dug up said they were assassins.”

“Disembodied assassins? Is that possible?”

“Well, it’s either that or we’ve both lost our minds.”

Vincent had no intention of arguing either for or against that thought. He knew how tenuous his own grasp on reality could be, and if Veld was losing his grip it was probably Vincent’s fault. He helped Veld up, sat him in a chair, and grabbed Cerberus, sliding the gun back into its holster. “I don’t understand why the ghost attacked. He said find--”

But he hadn’t said find what, or who was to do the finding.

There came a pounding on the door. Gods, the noise! His head still rang with the echo of the gunshot.

Veld groaned. “I’ll get it, I have a pretty good idea who it is.”

A woman stood on their front steps, with three large men behind her. A handsome, mature woman with long dark gray hair and a face Vincent knew from WRO HQ.

Veld sighed. “Hello, Judit.”

“Sir?” The sector supervisor peered inside, brows going up as she spied Vincent. “Is everything all right? We had a report of gunfire.”

“Everything’s fine. We had…an intruder, but he’s gone. Missed the bugger, but we scared him off.”

Behind him, Vincent scowled. He never missed, damn it.

“Someone broke in?” Judit’s eyes scanned the doorframe. “Where?”

“We left the door unlocked. It was stupid.”

Judit looked at him as though weighing his words. She wasn’t an idiot. He was the director of municipal security. Was it likely he’d make that kind of mistake?

He was also an ex-Turk and he could lie as smooth as cream. “Vince thought I’d locked up and I thought he had. Just one of those things, but we’ll be more careful from now on. Thanks for your quick response, Judit.”

She wasn’t quite ready to leave. “It was a man, you said. Did you get a look at him?”

Veld shook his head. “Too dark.”

“Do you know where the bullet went?”

Veld looked over the room, spotting the triple hole in the woodwork near the door. “Ah, right here. This old wood’s pretty thick, should still be in there.” He stepped outside to look at the exterior wall. “Yep, no exit hole.” He clapped a hand on Judit’s shoulder. “Again, good work. Nothing to worry about.”

“Well, if you say so. We’ll have a look around, just in case, but he’s probably long gone by now.”

“You do that. Good night, Judit, guys.”

Judit peered inside at Vincent, a hint of a smile on her lips. “Looking good, Valentine.”

“Oh, gods.” He ducked behind the door, face flaming. Great, every scar in plain view, not to mention everything else. At least Veld had pants on.

Veld came in and shut the door, grinning. “Exhibitionist.”

Vincent flipped him off and went to get dressed, with a stop in the second bedroom in case the ghost was there again; it wasn’t. He took a few minutes to sit on the bed and just breathe, thinking nothing, letting his heartbeat settle back into its usual slow rhythm. Thank the gods Veld was unharmed, and hadn’t asked too many questions.

When he came back, Veld had two mugs of steaming tea on the table.

“I’m going to get dressed. Can I trust you out here with the knives?”

Vincent looked at him. Veld snorted. “Forget the puppy eyes, Valentine, I’m immune.” He pushed the second mug into Vincent’s hands. “Yes or no?”

“Yes. Of course. We’re going to the warehouse?”

“Damn straight. I want this resolved tonight.” He left the room. Vincent sat, drinking tea, watching the light flicker and dance over the knife block.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I stole another ex-Turk. She wanted work and got hired over at the WRO in Veld's division ;)


	6. Ugly Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Veld and Vincent find their way to their unwelcome house-guest's hiding place. But now they're in the ghost's territory...

Lights lined the edge of the warehouse roof, splashing a sodium-orange glare across the surrounding lot. A rusty chain-link fence circled the property, its front gate hung with a massive steel lock. Veld used bolt cutters to remove it. He’d brought a crowbar as well.

“You have an interesting collection of tools,” said Vincent.

“I’ve led an interesting life.”

“Do you have a chainsaw?”

Veld looked at him. “No. Why?”

“No reason.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

No alarms went off as they crossed the lot to the main door. If anything was rigged, it was likely to be this.

"Don’t,” said Vincent as Veld probed the lock. “Your prosthesis is probably conductive.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

Vincent put a hand between the lock and Veld’s fingers. “Electrocution will kill you. I’ll just convulse and give off smoke.”

“Oh, that’s supposed to make it better? You can still feel pain!”

“Veld. Please.”

Veld sighed. “Fine.” He watched, silently counting, while Vincent put his old Turk skills to use. When he had the door open, and no alarm sounded, Veld spoke. “Sixteen seconds. You’re slipping.”

Vincent rolled his eyes and stepped into the dark hallway. Veld pulled out a penlight; Vincent, showing off the fact that he didn’t need one, made it to the end of the hallway and another door. He jimmied it open, disconnecting the alarm wires apparently by feel alone.

“Fourteen seconds,” said Veld.

“You’re not funny.”

Behind this door was a wood-floored chamber. A wide, empty chamber, veils of thick, dust-laden cobwebs hanging in the thin beam of Veld’s penlight, and nothing more. Dark stains marked the floor; they could have been anything from oil to blood to industrial grease.

Veld swept the light from floor to ceiling and wall to wall. “Nothing left of whatever they did in here.”

Vincent roamed along the walls, running his fingers over the seams and corners. Every twelve inches or so, he tapped the wall with his knuckles. “There has to be a door somewhere.”

Veld walked the floor, tracing the rows of wood planks with his light. If this aged, grimy stuff was what interior decorators meant by distressed wood, he couldn’t see the attraction. At odd intervals were long, squared-off gouges, showing where furniture or equipment once stood, or in one case, had been dragged. He quartered the room, holding onto his patience. Neither he nor Vincent were going to get any peace tonight, or possibly any night, until they found this “ghost” and put him to rest.

The beam of light caught on something, glinting. He knelt for a closer look, feeling it with his fingertips: A small indentation with a beveled edge. “Vince! Over here!”

In a moment Vincent hovered over the spot. “Let’s see. Is that--?”

“Yep.” Veld slid his fingers along the planks. “Here’s another. Grab the crowbar.”

Ancient grit and grease made for a nasty glue. Even Vincent had to strain to dislodge the trap-door from its bed. The old wood creaked and groaned, sounding entirely too much like something from the old Shinra mansion, but at last they raised it enough for Vincent to get his hands under it and heave it out of the way.

Veld shone his penlight down the opening in the floor, revealing dust, cobwebs, and a stairwell. Cold air, laden with a thick, oily stench, wafted out. “Hear anything?”

“Humming,” Vincent murmured. “Some kind of power source. And…bubbling.” He blinked. “Veld, I know what it is.” He pushed past Veld, swinging down onto the first step.

“Vincent, wait!”

“No, I have to go first. The ghost doesn’t like you.”

“Yeah, I’m crushed,” Veld muttered, watching as Vincent began cautiously descending the stairs, one hand on the wall for balance. “Be careful.”

“Always,” Vincent said. “Ah--light switch.” His hand moved, and a pale green light flooded the space below. That, and the bubbling sound…oh, gods. Veld followed, certain of what they would find.

He hit the lower floor a step behind Vincent, who came to a sudden stop.

Five suspension tanks lined the far wall, filled with viscous green liquid. Within each tank a body floated, pierced by thin tubing that led from their heads and torsos to somewhere in the upper interior of the tanks. Three were male, two female; all of them little more than corpse-pale skin stretched over slack muscles and sharp bones.

“There.” Vincent pointed to the second tank from the right. “That’s him.” The body inside was male, blonde, clad in a ragged white shirt and dark trousers, silver earring with its red stone glinting at his ear.

Vincent approached the tank, put a hand on the glass as he looked up, trying to see the young man’s face. “Hello? Can you hear me? We’ve come to get you out of here.”

“Vince, you’re talking to an assassin, there,” Veld said. The crowbar was a reassuring weight in his hand. The room was filled with cupboards, examination tables, and various pieces of unfamiliar equipment, dust layered over everything like ash.

“Can you hear me?” Vincent said again, gently tapping the glass.

The tanks bubbled, mako endlessly recirculating, casting a green glow over Vincent’s face. Veld shuddered, imagining Vincent on the other side of the glass. He knew there was a release mechanism, but surely it couldn’t be that easy. They could as readily kill the young man as rescue him. And what about the other four?

“Hold on, we’ll get you out.” Vincent turned his attention to the controls on the front of the tank, examining the dials and buttons amid a row of green lights.

The lights on the other four tanks all burned red. Veld’s stomach flipped as he guessed the implication.

"Damn it, the records Tseng showed me said this project was taken down. How the hell did they miss this place?”

Maybe they hadn’t.

He began a slow circuit of the room, looking more closely at everything. Bare concrete walls, cement floor, naked bulbs hanging from corroded wires. Beakers and retorts lay cracked or shattered amid long-dried, greenish stains. Droppers, clamps and metal forceps stuck out of a pile of tangled rubber tubing, and over it all, patches of pale, iridescent mold gleamed.

Under a table, a metal wastebasket caught Veld’s eye. He pulled it out.

It was filled with charred and crumpled papers, most only partially burned.

“Left in a hurry, didn’t you?” He drew out a wad of paper. Blackened bits flaked off as he picked it open. Brown and yellow burn marks obscured the smeared ink. He tried another, and a third, before he found one with spidery handwriting that could still be read.

Yes, it was the same project, all the more horrifying for what the handwriting told him. He read through several pages rapidly, every word more nauseating than the last.

One word in particular, one very familiar word, sent a lick of cold flame up his spine.

“Son of a bitch, this whole scheme was pointed straight at m--”

“Turk,” said a high, breathy voice. “Target One!”

Veld rolled away from Vincent’s lunge, coming up on his knees a few feet away, a long, burning streak of red down his arm. Goddamn it, where’d Vincent gotten the knife?

Oh, shit. It was one of Veld’s own.

“Damn it, Valentine, that’s my best boning knife!” He backed away, gripping the crowbar like a fighting staff.

Vincent stalked him, weaving like a cobra, matching every move Veld made. He feinted with the knife. Veld dodged, blocked the next blow, the knife skidding along Veld’s prosthetic arm with a metallic screech and dammit, he was going to ruin that blade!

He struck at Vincent’s knife hand, but Vincent evaded him and came up on his other side. Only another dive and roll saved Veld from being gutted; as it was, the knife scored him, slicing through the fabric of his shirt. Blood oozed down his side.

Vincent’s longer reach was going to be the death of him.


	7. Veld Puts an End to It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Veld's had enough of this. Warning for some slightly-bloody violence, a couple of naughty words.

“Valentine, snap out of it!” Veld backed toward the tanks. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him the pinched face of the assassin in the tube, his eyes glittering green under half-hooded lids, focused on Veld like a targeting system.

In that second of inattention, Vincent nearly skewered him, driving the knife toward his throat. Veld dropped, cursing himself for a rookie mistake. Never take your eyes off your opponent, he knew better. He scrambled away as Vincent stumbled, corrected, and came at him again.

“Valentine!” No response, no recognition in his face. The knife flashed. Veld parried with the crowbar, catching the blade with the bar’s curved tip, yanking it out of Vincent’s hand. Steel chimed as it hit the floor. Vincent retreated, snarling.

“Right, now for you, you little shit!” Veld turned back to the tank, grasping the crowbar in both hands.

His first blow cracked the glass. That ought to break the bastard’s concentration. Lights flashed, sparks flew. A second blow, and the green lights began to flicker wildly.

The click of a boot-heel warned him just in time to sidestep. He whirled to meet Vincent‘s rush, the long blade once again in Vincent’s grip.

“Fuck this.” Veld swung the crowbar with all his strength. This time he struck true; the crack of bone turned his stomach. The knife spun away into the shadows as Vincent dropped, gasping, to his knees.

Veld hovered, waiting. Behind him, an alarm began to wail.

Vincent raised his head, panting, eyes glazed with pain, arm hanging limp.

“Bronnnze…you hurt me…”

“Don’t make me do it again.”

“Just wanted to play….where’s my knife?” The voice came high-pitched and whiny. Veld hadn’t thought Vincent’s voice could go that high. If this was the assassin speaking, Veld wasn’t impressed.

“It’s my knife, and if you can’t play nicely you don’t get to use it.” Veld raised the crowbar. “Do I need to break something else?”

Tears welled in the crimson eyes. “Nooo…” Vincent clutched his broken arm, biting his lip so hard it began to bleed. His tongue darted out, licking at the blood. “Pretty red, better dead…” Crooning nonsense, he huddled into himself, long hair falling over his face.

Gods, had Veld broken his mind as well as his arm? The bone would regenerate. He wasn’t so sure about the mind, but Valentine had never been one hundred per cent in that department, had he? The assassin had ripped away his grasp on reality. He had to get him out of here.

Time to finish cleaning house.

He turned back to the tank. The green liquid sloshed, the body within writhing and shaking, snapped tubes flailing. Veld scanned the dials and readouts. Ah, there it was: Drain. He hit that one. The level of the liquid began to lower rapidly. The central panel read “Failure Imminent.” That was an understatement.

He kept one eye on Vincent, who watched him through a tangle of hair. Vincent made a move as though about to rise, subsiding when Veld hefted the iron bar.

When the liquid had nearly finished draining, Veld hit the button marked Release, and opened the glass door. The assassin fell into his arms, cold, wet, limp as a fresh corpse. Veld caught most of the slight weight on his prosthetic arm. He sank to the floor, the young man’s body on his lap, and took a moment to catch his breath.

“V-Veld?”

Ah, there was the familiar smoky voice. Vincent, still cradling his arm, blinked at him. “You‘re bleeding. Did I do that?”

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“You hit me.”

“Yeah. Had to. I’m sorry, Vince.”

Vincent focused on the assassin. “Is he alive?”

Veld hesitated, but there was no point in lying; at least, not about this. “He’s dying. I found some notes, and they expand on what Tseng had. His body chemistry was drastically altered, he can’t live outside of that mix of mako and drugs. And the drugs are almost gone.”

A tear slid down Vincent’s face. “I wanted to save him.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Isn’t there anything we can do?”

“No. The formulas aren’t in the notes. They never intended him to live beyond his task. I think that’s why he tried so hard to kill his mark--to put an end to it.”

Vincent drew a slow breath. “And the mark was…?”

“Me.”

“Gods. We...I tried to kill you. I couldn’t control him! Veld, it wasn’t me, he was just…so strong, we…”

“Easy, there. Wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t even his. It was Shinra.” Veld gave him a tired smile. “After I forced him to make me Director again, he wanted me dead. In the end, he just had me shot. But the assassin project became his failsafe against any other betrayals.”

“How did the ghost find you in the first place?”

“Through the electrical grid.”

“What?”

“They could send their minds via mako through the power grid to seek their targets, and take control of the target’s body. It was meant to look like suicide.” A shiver ran through him; the ghost had almost succeeded, inducing him to pick up Vincent’s gun. “Or they could force someone else to commit the murder. It was a tidy scheme.”

“But…why were these five abandoned?”

Veld shrugged, the movement sharpening the pain in his wounded arm and side. He chose his words carefully. “They must have cleared out the ground floor and run for their lives, just ahead of the law.”

No need to speculate about intentions to return once the heat was off. It wouldn’t happen now; dead was dead, and not just for the assassins. There would be no more such “ghosts.”

Veld shifted the assassin’s body gently to the floor. He was light as a bird, and as fragile, pale skin threaded with thin blue veins under the oily sheen of acid-green mako. Rapid, shallow breaths and a stuttering heartbeat shook his emaciated body.

His eyes burned in pits of shadow; they fluttered, darted, seeking, lighting on Vincent’s face. Slowly, a smile lifted the corners of his mouth.

Vincent reached out his left hand, gloved fingers signing.

_I’m sorry. I failed._

The young man’s hand slowly formed the word “forgiven.” His eyes turned up toward Veld, his lips shaping words.

 Veld couldn’t be sure, but it looked like “I regret.”

“You’re forgiven, too,” Veld said softly. The kid was a pawn, and Veld didn’t believe in holding grudges.

Vincent signed again: _Be at peace._

The smile widened just a bit, the light fading from the mako-bright eyes. One soft breath sighed from between his lips, and he went still.

Vincent closed the young man’s eyes, then slid across the floor into Veld’s arms. 

# # #

Tseng slammed shut the van’s rear doors and walked back to join Veld as the van began to move. Veld leaned against the warehouse wall, shirt sleeve dangling, a bandage across his ribs, while Reno finished patching up his right arm.

“That’s the last of the equipment,” Tseng said.

Veld nodded. “And the bodies…?”

“...Will all have a proper cremation, and interment of the ashes.”

“Poor bastards,” Reno said. “Okay, boss, you’re all set. Better get a tetanus shot, though, just to be on the safe side.”

“Boss?” said Veld, one brow rising.

Reno gave him a crooked grin. “Old habits.” He helped Veld ease his arm back into his sleeve, repacked his box of first aid supplies, and ran off to join the other Turks who were securing the building.

“I believe this is yours.” Tseng handed Veld a long, slim, carbon steel knife.

“Which reminds me,” said Veld, scowling at a nick in the blade’s edge, “where’s Valentine?”

“With Rude and Elena. Rude’s trying to keep him still while his arm regenerates.”

“He’ll have to sit on him. In which case, I want photos.”

“I can probably arrange that.” Tseng looked away as one of the Turks locked the warehouse door and flashed him a hand signal. “We’re done for tonight. The demolition unit will be here in the morning.”

“Good, although I hate to see an empty lot. The property still belongs to Shinra. Do you suppose…?”

“I think Rufus can be persuaded to create, oh, say, a public garden on the spot.”

Veld smiled. “It would be nice to have some green space here.” He switched the knife to his left hand and held out his right. “Thanks for everything, Tseng. I owe you one.”

Tseng gripped his hand. “Think nothing of it. I did say we were yours if needed. I do have one question, though.”

“Oh?”

“Well, the place was a mess, all that junk that had rotted years ago. Pretty musty, and that nasty mako taint over everything…”

“Uh-huh.”

“So I wondered why I smelled burnt paper, and after looking around a bit, I found a pile of hot ashes in a wastebasket.”

“The sparks must have caught in it, I guess.”

“Sparks?”

Veld looked Tseng full in the eyes. “When I smashed the suspension tank, it threw off sparks. Pretty careless of me, really. We’re lucky it didn’t start a major fire. Burned itself out, I suppose.”

Tseng returned his look without blinking. “That must be it.”

“It was.” No one needed to know what had been written in those notes, nor did anyone need, or want, to ever see that spidery handwriting again. “So, might as well go save Vincent from Rude, and go home. Later, Tseng.”

Tseng bowed and went to round up his people.

Despite Rude’s concern, Vincent’s arm healed straight and strong. By the following evening, he showed no sign of pain. Veld, with his cuts and bruises, wished he could say the same. Ah, well, having Vincent fuss over him was pleasant enough.

He sat back in his favorite chair with a cup of mulled wine, while Vincent, under strict orders to use the utmost care with Veld’s cookware, cleaned up after dinner.

“I’m not touching the knives this time,” he called out to Veld.

“I don’t think it was you touching them the last time,” Veld said, to no response. He had questions, and he would damn well get answers. Tonight, he was too tired and too comfortable to care. He let it go.

If he was honest with himself, he’d admit that Valentine’s oddities were part of his peculiar charm; Veld could never resist a mystery.

Finished in the kitchen, Vincent came out to join him, and leaned over his chair, slipping his arms around Veld’s shoulders. “You know what?”

“No, what?”

“This feels like home.”  


“Because you have chores to do?”

“No,” said Vincent. “Because you’re in it.”

Maybe Valentine wasn’t going to bolt after all. Relaxing into the cushions, Veld tilted his head up toward Vincent, who ducked his head to meet his lips, and abruptly lifted it again.

“Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“Like a bit of glass falling, a sort of tinkling.” Vincent turned toward the rear of the house. “In the back bedroom.”

Veld sighed. “Go and see. I know you won’t rest until you do.”

The room Vincent now thought of as the ghost’s had been set up for guests, though Vincent sometimes used it himself. The furnishings were spare: Bed, chair, bedside table, a lamp, a small chest. He’d stored a few odds and ends in the drawers. Nothing seemed out of place.

Except...

Light glinted off of a tiny object on the floor. He picked it up. It was an earring, a swirl of silver, set with a dark red stone.

A soft wash of heat brushed his ear. In his mind, pale fingers flashed, forming words.

_Turk, not-Turk. Be at peace._

 


End file.
